Not A Capulet: The Tragedy of Tybalt
by MurasakiNeko
Summary: Tybalt of Romeo and Juliet is not really a true Capulet he is Lady Capulet's nephew, though he lives in the house and is thought to be one by the townspeople of Verona, and he wishes to prove himself just as worthy of the name as the Capulet.
1. Chorus

Chorus  
  
(If you think I am Shakespeare, you have some serious problems. Yet, if you care to hear it straight out: I am not. I hate to inform, but he has been dead . . . and for a very long time. It makes me very sad.)  
  
(Also, note: the beginning-- the Chorus chapter-- is a little slow; it is just exposition and a study on Tybalt's character, through his own eyes. If you want action, skip ahead to Act I.)  
  
Capulet is a fine name.  
  
It arouses a certain ring and even fear into the hearts of enemies (namely, the Montagues); it suggests a proud family of ancient Italy, brings to mind the large house on the east side of Verona, surrounding by impressive walls and massive gardens. A house that is more a compound, a mansion, a castle, than a house, though it goes by one name: the House of Capulet. Every Capulet lives within, from patriarch to lowest servant. All dine in the same fine dining room, all socialize in the same grand hall, all even die in the same death room-- and are buried in the private Capulet monument in the church at the heart of Verona. To be a Capulet is to be proud, elite, noble, immortal.  
  
Alas, I am not a Capulet.  
  
My name is Tybalt Niccolini. I am only in the Capulet circle by marriage-- specifically, that my aunt, the Lady Capulet. She is my father's only sister. Father is six years her elder, the patriarch of the Veronese Niccolinis-- not that that ever meant much. My aunt's status was magnified to a thousand times greater than his as soon as she married, and he never quite forgave her-- though he did think highly enough to leave me in her care when he died.  
  
I was raised in the inner Capulet circle. Mother died in childbirth with me, and Father passed away when I was but six. Because I was too young to head the Niccolini family at that age, I was taken in as a related ward by my aunt and uncle, the head of the Capulet family. I lived as close as a brother would to my cousin Juliet, who was only three when I entered her house.  
  
Yet I cannot help but feel inferior when I am a male, older than Juliet, and as close to her parents as if they were my own, and yet Juliet is the heiress to the finest family in Verona. Of course, I am the heir to my own fortunes, but they are so small-- and I am in no hurry to leave the pomp and circumstance of the House of Capulet for my own small Niccolini way.  
  
Though I am not a Capulet by blood, I cannot deny my Capulet tendencies. I share enough traits with my uncle, I seem related. We are both explosively aggressive, especially when it comes to family pride and honor, though my uncle is slightly more refined and dignified. I, as the youthful one, have received the reputation for it. There's something about reputations-- having one makes one act accordingly to it, therefore prompting it along. I confess I erupt over petty things, simply because I can. It is my prerogative under my name.  
  
Aunt says it's because I have a bad spleen.  
  
It was my choleric energy (once again, the spleen-- though I can't understand how my spleen can cause such trouble when it's never once ailed me) that inspired my uncle to enroll me in a fencing school. He demanded only a best for a Capulet relation, and a few years later I emerged an excellent duelist, if I may boast. I am well trained in the use of rapiers, daggers, and longswords; I am unparalleled in Verona. In this, I have a reputation even greater than that of my temper.  
  
Some of my companions from the fencing academy who have kept correspondence with me complain that their skills are useless in our increasingly peaceful society. Men carry swords for fashion, not necessity. There's no opportunity to show off the which we labored so hard to master.  
  
Lucky for me, however, the Capulets never lack fighting occasions to duel. No one is quite sure how the feud was started (every member of the Capulets stands that it was a Montague's fault-- though I am certain it is another tale in Montague house), but it has lasted for centuries. I am not one to break tradition. Even before I became a trained fencer, I reveled in the tensions between the two families-- families so influential they each were more a clan than a family. Though many considered Capulets (myself included) are not truly of the bloodline, any in favor with the family are treated as such. The whole city seems to part either way; even the Prince's kinsmen are split: Paris frequents our estate while his crude cousin Mercutio befriends the Montague boys. The feud seems to have kept the city in a constant battle of loyalties; it gives Verona a flavor, and a vibrance. Walking along the streets with my uncle as a small boy, I watched with awe and pride as he spat at the feet of Montague, and felt a glowing sense of satisfaction when Montague squirmed and fumbled with his rapier. The two never drew on each other until I came of age-- and sometimes I wonder if that might have been the reason. However, neither failed to join in if any excitable servants made the first move. I latched on to the sacred tradition, seeking out the Montagues and memorizing their faces so I would never make the mistake of befriending one. At home I reveled in indoctrinating stories of Capulet glory told to me by my older cousins, and, as I aged, passed them on to Juliet myself. As soon as I was capable, I joined in the fighting myself, matched against those closest in age and rank to I. The code of honor demanded I fight only young noblemen as myself; servants fought servants and patriarch fought patriarch. Sadly, my matches are pathetic fighters; I could easily face Lord Montague himself, and yet I am stuck with them. Romeo, the sickening fair-faced heir to the Montague line, does nothing more than sigh and mope to his cousins. He is a sentimental, melodramatic poet, afflicted with the melancholy the way I am with choler. He is a disgrace of a man. His cousin Benvolio is no better; the small, dark-haired boy winces at the sight of blood and would sooner stutter out feeble excuses than wield the sword he has privilege to carry. Such a pathetic pacifist . . . it is only my sense of honor and pity that keeps me from running him through. Besides, if I got rid of him, who would I have to toy with?  
  
Recently, the brawls have accelerating in intensity. I wonder if I may be blamed for that. Sometimes, I fear, that in trying so hard to prove myself a good Capulet, I overdo it. I love my family and the name of Capulet; I love fencing and the rigors of noble honor. There is no better way to express both than through the feud. By defending the Capulet name, should I not prove myself just as worthy of the title as those under it? 


	2. Act I, Scene I: The Brawl

Act I, Scene I: The Brawl

(I wasn't Shakespeare in the previous chapter, and I haven't turned into him for this one, at least not last time I checked . . . hold on a second while I check again, just in case. Oh, nope. Still not Shakespeare.)

Summer days in Italy are astoundingly hot. It enflames the senses and makes for much irritability, even in the morning. Unable to stand baking in my sheets in my oven of a room, I ventured out into the Verona morning, where the early market was just beginning to commence.

The stirring passions were apparent in several servants I passed. Sampson and Gregory, two of the Capulet servants, were out accompanying ("escorting," as they put it, appealing to their low sense of honor) several maidservants to the market to buy fresh supplies for the Capulet breakfast. They were babbling on in their course language about how they would fight any Montague ruthlessly, from the female maidservants to Montague himself. I smiled at the two of them, pleased with their loyalty and devotion. I had left my manservant at home. After all, he is but a child, innocent and curious; more apt to get me in trouble than save me from it. Besides, he is friends with Juliet's nurse's servant, Peter, and I like to be benevolent and give them time together.

When I looked back to Sampson and Gregory again, they were throwing taunts and gibes at two Montague servants, denoted by their official red garb. They, two, had noticed the Capulet servants by their blue, and were making rejoinder rather aggressively. It looked harmless, so I walked on, but made mental note to return, just in case. I didn't want to miss a fight if there was one; in fact, I rather hoped there would be.

I was distracted by the arrival of my best friend, Petruchio, one of the outside noblemen in Capulet favor. He had ventured from his house early, and was already very awake (if I am choleric with a bad spleen, he is sanguine and takes in entirely too much air). He had spotted a pretty girl and wanted to show her out to me. Petruchio enjoys women, and with his boyish curls and winning smile he has reason.

"See that fair maid there-- aye, her. Be she not fair as day?" he sighed, almost femininely. It reminded me painfully of Romeo.

"Is that all thou ever thinkst of?" I sighed back, mocking him. "Thou sounds as pitiful as Romeo Montague."

Petruchio gave me a withering look. "Thou wouldst do well to have a loving thought once or twice."

"I see no logic in chasing about maids that will only play thee false and act perverse."

"That be how they show their affection!" Petruchio laughed, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "Tybalt, thou art of an age, thou shouldst be consorting with the ladies. Thou hast looks, blood-- and talent with sword," he winked.

I suppressed the heat rising in my face. "Looks, nay; I hath heard not any maid speak of me in such a manner." The only woman who has ever called me handsome was Juliet's nurse-- and that's small talk coming from a fat, foulmouthed widow with only four teeth.

"Thou looks not," Petruchio shook his head. "An thou were to show off thyself to the maids, I expect thou might find many quite taken."

I scoffed his compliment. "Who has thou heard speak of me?"

He opened his mouth, but could not bring a word to his lips. After a moment, he obliged with, "I direct thee try thy luck. I hast not seen thee at it. Why not with that fair maid?"

He motioned to the girl he had been watching. She was pretty, indeed, but I paid little attention. She carried a prudish air, with her nose in the air and her lips tight. I knew her immediately.

"That be Rosaline," I informed him, striking him bluntly back into reality. "She hath vowed to be chaste. Thou shan't have her."

Petruchio looked stunned. "Chaste? A fair maid such as she? 'Tis an outrage!"

I shrugged. "I heard tell a Montague boy tried to win her heart and failed." That moony Romeo was in fact still stuck on her; I had seen him already this morning, sighing and moping like a childish girl, sending pathetic simpers in the direction of Rosaline, who of course ignored him. I had never paid much attention to Rosaline until I heard that tale; now I had much respect for the girl that could cause a Montague such pain.

"She might prefer a Capulet," Petruchio elbowed me and winked. I sighed and shook my head. Then, suddenly, I heard a clang behind me like the clash of swords. I have tuned my ears to detect such sounds. I froze and listened intently, then seized the hilt of my sword. The servants must have started something! I wheeled around to join in.

"Where art thou going?" stammered Petruchio, whose senses were not nearly as adept as mine. Juliet once said I had the reflexes of a cat-- and then she thought it a great jest, as Tybalt is also the name of the prince of cats in that silly tale Reynard the Fox. So I earned a nickname: The Prince of Cats. It's endearing to those close to me, such as my aunt and cousin, but since the Montague boys have discovered it I have had no end to the grief.

"There's a brawl!" I shouted back to him.

"But what about Rosaline?"

"I'm a fighter, not a lover!"

Petruchio followed along after me, finally catching up, as his legs are slightly longer. "And 'twould be why all of your followers are men," he sighed with little breath.

"I don't see Romeo Montague dripping with women, either!" I snapped.

"He's not a Capulet," said Petruchio, emphasizing the name as if it were a holy title.

"Nor," I said stiffly, "am I."

Petruchio shut up.

By the time we reached the scene of the crime, there were five partakers and things were heating up quickly. I scanned over everything: the two Capulet servingmen, two Montague servants, and Benvolio-- ah, I had a match! So like a Montague, too, to dishonorably tip the scales so that the fight was weighted unfairly towards the Montagues.

I approached my rival slowly but surely, to be positive he saw my leering grin. "What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee, Benvolio, and look upon thy death!"

The threat drained the color from Benvolio's round face and his sword fell feebly to his side. "I do but keep the peace!" So like him, effeminate and weak. "Put up thy sword, or manage it to part these men with me!"

Disgusting. As if I, Tybalt, most reputed swordsman in Verona, would put my tool to a use such as that?

Peacekeeping? And-- the disgrace-- help a Montague? It made me laugh, cold, cruel, and mirthlessly.

"What, drawn and talk of peace?" I motioned to his sword, which was indeed out, rather hypocritically. "I hate the word," I looked deep into his frightened eyes, "as I hate Hell, all Montagues, and thee." I pulled out my sword and drew into positon. "Turn thee, Benvolio, and look upon thy death!"  
I lunged for him, and his eyes widened in fear. He flung up his sword automatically and began to defend himself, sweating profusely at his brow. His fighting was pathetic and yet he was working all he could to parry my thrusts. I was in complete control. Once I found his rhythm, I began to toy with him, rather as a cat does a mouse-- another allusion to my name. I flicked a bauble off his doublet and even knicked him on the arm just for show. He faltered and cringed at the tiny dribbles of blood that began to seep through.

From all around us came the shouts of townsmen; I had arrived just before the real fray. Petruchio came to back me up, matched against a Montague- loving commoner. Soon all of my usual cronies were at my back, fighting for the Capulet name and adding their own sweet music to the thrilling clang of sword against sword. I felt the thrill of the fight, the valor of fighting for the name, the energy I was so full of at all times. This was the only release.

However, with the ruckus came attention from the Prince's hired partisans. The old fool, disapproving of our rivalry, had hired unwitting citizens to "serve him" and break up any fights that arose. Most of them were commoners out of favor with both families, making an attempt to redeem themselves through the even more noble prince. I despised them.

"Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!"

Their shouts rang out as they dashed into the battle, ruthlessly knocking swords from the duelists' hands with their rough, dishonorable clubs and staffs. I dancing lightly away from them, keeping my focus on Benvolio. Nevertheless, even the best swordsmen is no match for several men with clubs. I saw Petruchio go down-- his weapon was knocked away and when he stooped to pick it up he was knocked sharply in person. Soon I was one of the only brawlers left standing, backing the timid Benvolio further and further away. He obliged, dripping with sweat and bleeding profusely from his arm, which had turned out to yield a better cut than I had expected.

Finally, two men closed in on me at once (two against me and none for Benvolio; dishonorable wretches!) and attempted to beat me down. They had nearly got me locked between them when Benvolio took the advantage and sliced into my arm. When I looked up from the wound, which bore a remarkable resemblance to his, I saw him sneer. I had underestimated his capacity for revenge-- though he had carried it out when I was incapable of defending myself. Dirty, rotten Montague! My temper swelled; I felt the blood surge through my veins and I struggled to free myself, but to no avail.

"What noise is this?" boomed a voice. I managed to free myself enough to turn behind me and see Lord Capulet himself marching genteelly to the edge of the square, his wife at his side. "Give me my longsword, ho!"

"A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?" cried my aunt, worried that he was too old for this fighting. She did not hold him back, however. She knew the severities of family honor.

"My sword, I say. Old Montague is come and flourishes his blade in spite of me!" Sure enough, Montague had entered from the opposite side of the square.

"Thou villain Capulet!" he cried, taking up his own weapon. Lady Montague (I immediately understood her relation to Benvolio) seized his arm to hold him back. "Hold me not, let me go!" he shouted, shaking her off.

"Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe!" she admonished. So it was true; both were resistant to make the first move. Only servants-- and I-- were foolish-- or brave-- enough to start a fight. The entrances of the patriarchs had caused enough upheaval to reignite the fight. I raised my sword again, and Benvolio saw me just in time to raise his own. Our peacekeepers attempted to force us back in order again, but I danced out of their way; I knew how to avoid them now.

I did not stop again until the Prince entered.


	3. Act I, Scene I: The Law

Act I, Scene I: The Prince's Decree

(I'm still not Shakespeare . . . he wrote all the lines; I just added the random emotions and thoughts of Tybalt, and some dialogue of my own, because he is awesome and deserves his own play. Oh, and, by the way, it might come out as if Tybalt has a thing for Juliet. Hey, at least it's better than the 1996 movie where he makes out with Lady Capulet . . . anyway, it could or could not be "a thing"-- he's very into the Capulet honor, but, hey, why not make him jealous of Romeo for taking Juliet? Marriage between cousins, especially back in those days, is not that bad. Of course, it could just be the innocent fondness of favorite cousins; they've grown up together and Tybalt would be concerned for her well-being. In the immortal words of Sampson: "Take in what sense thou wilt.")

There was no fanfare, music, or ceremonial call; he simply marched out into the square and everyone was silenced. I only looked up and acknowledged his presence for a second, but that brief falter in attentions had given my now vengeful partisan friends the chance they needed. One of them clubbed down my sword-- I cried out indignantly that they could have bent it-- while the other seized my upper arm to keep me from retrieving it. The two then held me fast--and swordless-- while the Prince issued his decree, in a fit of dignified rage. I struggled between them, but they held my arms straight on either side of me, locking me in perfectly, forced to watch the Prince. They knew well who I was, and how much I needed to hear his decree. I wonder if they prided themselves on apprehending the glorious Tybalt-- even if it did take three men.

"Rebellious citizens! Enemies to peace! Profaners of this neighbor-stained steel-- will they not hear?" A few of the lingering fighters finally turned their attention to him, silent and somber. The Prince glared at them. "What, ho! You men, you beasts, that quench the fire of your pernicious rage with purple fountains issuing from your veins!"

He had exaggerated; barely anyone was wounded and no one had died. Of course, there had been other times . . .

"On pain of torture, form those bloody hands, throw your mistempered weapons to the ground and hear your moved prince!" Benvolio, in a guilty fit of fear, tossed his sword away as if it had burned him. I gave him a dirty look, which he ignored.

The Prince began his reprimand, scanning over all of us with narrowed eyes. "Three civil brawls," he stressed, "bred of an airy word, by thee, old Capulet, and Montague, have thrice disturbed our streets and made Verona's ancient citizens cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments to wield old partisans in hands as old, cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate."

It was his own fault he had hired partisans. I glared at him, willing him to mind his own business. The Prince already knew me to be an insolent firebrand, so I did not dare speak aloud. He seemed angry enough as it were, and in such a case as this defending the honorable brawl could bring dishonor to the family. I had been to blame for the last fight, and it was only the silence of the Capulet walls that protected me from the Prince's wrath. Still, I knew he suspected-- and he suspected me now, too.

He looked directly at me when he made his condemnation. "If you ever disturb our streets again, your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace!"

A gasp went up among the ranks, yet the Prince was unmoved. "For this time all the rest depart away. You, Capulet," he pointed to my uncle, who blanched with fear, "shall go along with me, and Montague, come you this afternoon to know our further pleasure in this case, to old Free-town, our common judgement place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart."

The partisan let me go. "You heard, be gone with thee! And trouble not again the streets with thy filthy words and cursed fighting!" he scolded. I picked up my sword, eyes set maliciously on him, and flicked away some of the blood from my arm. Capulet was being led away with the Prince, his head down but his shoulders still square, making martyrdom from such disgrace.

My family also appeared abashed, gathering together quietly in clusters, making their way back to the house. Though the Montagues had been scolded just as harshly, the condemnation before the entire town had been embarrassing. I saw no reason to be chastened, however, and kept my head erect.

"Such a law," breathed Lady Capulet. "Nephew, art thou hurt?" she pointed to my arm.

I drew it out of her sight. "No. 'Twas not a brawl, that; no one was killed. The worst wounds were such as mine."

My aunt took out her handkerchief nonetheless. "There, wrap that about it; stem the bleeding."

I obeyed and soon we reached the house. Juliet was there at the gate, eager to greet us; she had been left all alone, with all the men and her mother off at the square for the fight. Her large, dark, innocent eyes were wide and curious.

She saw the handkerchief. "Tybalt, were thou hurt by a Montague?" she asked, shocked. She was a clever girl, and I could not be sure if she meant to make the wound out to be a glorious battle scare or a symbol of ignominy.

I frowned but only in jest, playing along. "Benvolio Montague, may a pox fall upon his head."

"Which one be Benvolio?" she asked innocently. Juliet had never been out enough to know which Montague is which; she kept in the house, like any fine young women of Verona ought to be. She had nowhere she needed to be, besides the occasional shrift, being an unmarried girl. If ever she had to go anywhere, she was escorted by a male member of her family, usually her father-- or if he was busy, me.

Her nurse often lamented that it was a pity to keep her, such a beautiful girl, locked within walls where no one could see her. She had the distinctive dark, thick curls of all the Capulets, but they were made more beautiful by the contrast to her fair face. My skin is ruddy and tan from the Italian sun, but Juliet, always locked away like a fragile doll, allowed only out into the shady orchards of our garden, has retained the appearance of just that-- a doll. Her face was like porcelain, with only the faintest blush in her cheeks, as if someone had daubed a dash of paint on either of her cheeks and the color had spread and thinned, radiating out from her dainty cheekbones. Her lips were a stunning, deep red, though; so much more bold and adult then her childly pink cheeks. She tucked a long lock of her loose curls behind one ear and waited for my answer, blinking slowly, her impossibly long lashes following gracefully.

I had a dilemma: Tell her the truth of the weak Benvolio, or make up a grand tale of my valiant courage-- or a mixture of the two. I knew Juliet liked grand stories, so I made one for her.

"It was a vile fellow, Benvolio Montague," I said dramatically. She smiled, her eyes shining, not truly believing as she would have those days in our kindred childhood but still enjoying the yarn. "He wouldst not cast away the sword as the Prince asked, and, as I was cornered by two of his own, held fast by my arms," I held them out to illustrate, neglecting to mention that these were partisans and not truly "Benvolio's own"-- "the villain sliced me with his sword, and laughed, I dared I face him. Yet the Prince arrived, and stopped all nonsense. And I shall have my revenge," I vowed.

Juliet's lips were in a tight smile. "Thou always hast thy revenge."

"'Tis the honorable way." I turned to my aunt. "Speaking of honor, didst thou happen to see the way of Petruchio?"  
Lady Capulet smiled. "Petruchio be not of as stern stuff as thee. After his sword was knocked away, he dashed off, leaving his sword at the square."

My friends embarrass me.

"Petruchio be the one with the sweet curls, aye?" asked Juliet.

I raised my eyebrows at her. "Thou sweet on him?" I smirked; Petruchio would be pleased at this news. Juliet was a very coveted maid, for her family and her looks.

Juliet blushed, the roses in her cheeks blossoming. "I . . . no . . . his curls are just so like that of a child's," she said quickly.

Her mother smiled at her and then beckoned her away.

Having nothing more to attend to, I wandered aimlessly around the garden, nursing my wound. I would teach Benvolio to cut me like that again, next time . . .

Then it hit me. There wasn't going to be a next time.

I felt restless and resentful at the thought. How could a man defend his honor under such a law? It was inhuman. I had too much energy-- too much choler-- I could not bear it. I wanted to fight, feel the thrill, hear the whistle of the swords in the hissing winds in the air and the clank of metal upon metal.

By and by, Capulet returned from Free-town. He was silent and weary looking. He spotted me and came over meaningfully, cuffing an arm on my shoulder when he arrived. I presumed he meant it playfully, but it felt sharper than I would have suspected.

"Ah, Tybalt," he sighed, gazing contentedly out at the garden. Then he lowered his voice and sent his eyes into mine. "Thou . . . that brawl, today . . . didst thou . . . ?"

He suspected me. I felt my insides constrict in resentment at this false accusation, though I knew he had good reason."No, Uncle!" I cried in histrionic innocence, aloofly hurt."'Twas two servants. I merely came by during the fight and joined in, for their were more Montagues than Capulets. So much like the Montagues--"

He cut my slander of them short. "The prince has made a new law, just as he said this morning. Death to any man that may fight the other. Death to both. A Capulet may not fight a Montague, and the same in reverse." The bright light in his eyes intensified. "That means no more of this, Tybalt. No more. Keep thy sword within its sheath."

"Sir, an a Montague cross us I shall not hesitate to teach him otherwise!" I insisted proudly.

"And death to you an you do!" he furrowed his eyebrows, snapping slightly. "'Tis time to set aside the old enmity, lay the feud to rest. It has been too long besides." He sounded as if the Prince had indoctrinated him. He sighed, "Alas that it must be ceased through force."

"Surely the Capulets shall not allow ourselves to be hindered under such a law as that!" I cried in horror. He was going down willingly? Where was his honor? Where was his respect for the Capulet name? The patriarch of the Capulets himself, bowing to an unjust law!

The Lord Capulet grew stern. "No more of this, Tybalt, no more! 'Tis no longer in my hands. Thou hast always had a fiery temper and a humor fit for fighting that I have humored long enough. 'Twill be thy undoing!" he warned.

I tried to keep myself from being sulky; he had often warned me of the repercussions of my disposition, but I simply could not tolerate this. I was the only pillar of Capulet honor in the entire house-- and I was not even a Capulet. "If I were thee," I said boldly. "I would not put up with such a law."

His eyes were angry. "The Prince makes the laws, and if thou dost not follow and obey, I canst not intervene and save thee."

He tightened his grip on my shoulder, forcing me to cringe and twist into submission reluctantly.

"I understand," I said stiltedly through gritted teeth, "though I be reluctant enough."

My uncle released his grip. "I cannot change thy reluctance, but see to't thou stayest out of trouble."

Sulkily I kept my eyes averted as he looked to the gate, breaking into a wide grin that was quite a foil to his earlier frown. I looked upwards and saw that the County Paris had arrived. He was one of the Prince's kinsmen, but, judging by his attire and his jovial expression, he did not bring bad tidings of the Prince's wrath. He stepped inside the gate with a sweeping bow and a flash of his dashing smile. He had to be the male equivalent of Rosaline; if Juliet blushed for Petruchio, she'd swoon for him.

Paris acknowledged my presence with a stately nod and waited awkwardly as my uncle dismissed me with a glance towards the house. The two most likely wanted to suggest marriage business for Juliet, and I, the bride-to-be's cousin, had little interest or involvement in the affair. It was my business to defend her until she found her husband, but not do the finding for her.

I had no qualms about leaving; Paris was a few years older than I but he had an air that suggested that he regarded me as an unworthy child. He looked at me patronizingly and never spoke to me on equal terms. Perhaps he regarded me more as the Niccolini than the Capulet; he did not speak to my male cousins in such a fashion. He almost seemed to hold a certain puty for me. I hoped he hadn't heard my uncle admonishing me; it would only give him more to pity me for.

I stepped back into the cool shelter of the house and nearly knocked over Juliet, who was in the doorway, peering out apprehensively. I could see her whispered to herself, her bright red rosy lips moving along with her words. It was a habit she had always had, talking to herself. Often she grew so loud that if I did not disturb her I could be privy to all her innermost thoughts. I did not sneak up on her, but she was surprised to find me next to her when her aloud thoughts stopped. She would have seen me coming if she hadn't had her eyes on Paris.

"Tybalt!" she jumped a little when she realized I was there.

I smirked. "Thou shouldst not speak so loud when others be by; thou might give thyself away," I teased.

A flush of deep red color came up in her cheeks. It was a trait she had gotten from the Niccolini side, for I possessed it, too. She swatted at me, but I caught her arm with my swift reflexes. Her eyes met mine for a moment, and she swatted again, with the other hand. I caught it, too, so that she was stuck. She shook her arms feebly for a moment and then tipped her head back and cried in defeat, "Leave off!"

I let go, grinning.

Her countenance fell as she peered back out of the door. "Are they speaking of me?" she asked in a horrified whisper.

Young maids were always so much more fearful of marriage than men.

I grinned at her teasingly and she fidgeted. "Oh, Father must be inviting him to this e'en's party!" she stroked her face with one white hand.

I had forgotten about that. We were throwing a little Capulet masked ball to give Juliet a chance to see and be seen-- and keep up our good society reputation, of course. Juliet was excited, like a flighty little bird, but I had better things to set my mind on. Parties were such feminine things. Well, Petruchio liked them . . . but Petruchio has always been a bit lacking at the summit.

"Dost thou want the County at the party?" I asked.

"He's . . . he's . . . " she faltered. "So handsome, yet . . . so old."

"Thy father's farther in age to thy mother than she is to thee," I pointed out.

Juliet sighed and stared tensely back out at her father and possible betrothed. "'Twill all be down to what Father says, of course," she said truthfully. Juliet had no choice in the matter, after all. She was lucky, in a way; I had no idea where to start with women.

Juliet's nurse shuffled in. "Fie, peeping?" she scolded playfully, adjusting the white wimple that had slid down on her head too far. She spied Paris out the door, elbowed Juliet, and winked. "Ah, the County. Such a man, such a man . . . " she grinned, then turned to me. "Doesn't explain why you're here, though."

I sighed and smiled, feeling myself blush again. Juliet's nurse did nothing but jest.

"Thou wilt have to bid thy cousin good-bye, soon," the nurse sighed, wrapping her arm affectionately around Juliet. "Soon Juliet will be the lady of the house." She looked back to me. "Thou might consider looking forth for ladies at the party this e'en."

I sighed. "Perchance."

I would so much rather seek out Benvolio and wreak on him revenge.


	4. Act I, Scene V: The Party

Act I Scene V: The Party

(It would be cool if I owned all of this, all these characters of Shakespeare . . . but I don't. It's very sad.)  
The rest of the afternoon was a bustle to make ready the house for the party. I was not needed and kept out of the way, wasting my time in the garden attempting to teach my cowardly friend some technique to fencing. The lesson ended when I grew overexcited and accidentally lopped one of the buttons off Petruchio's good doublet.

"Aren't thou not to fight, besides?" he asked irritably, trying to reattach the button.

"Thou wouldst know for certain had thou stayed this morning," I pointed out, rather bitterly. "And thou be not a Montague. And I, not a Capulet, either."

Petruchio laughed. "So, in truth, thou truly can kill a Montague and not be put to death?"

I laughed along but wished that truly were so; I felt slightly sick recalling that the Prince had spoken the decree directly to me.

We went in the house once the guests began to arrive. Petruchio started off following Rosaline, but he blew a kiss to my cousin Livia. I hadn't wanted to go in so soon, for there was nothing to be done but sit out in the hall as the final preparations were made. We retired, along with my page, outside the door opposite the foyer. I didn't wish to greet guests. I took off my mask, adjusted my rapier in its hilt, and leaned leisurely against the corridor wall while Petruchio peered coyly down the hall at Livia or Helena or some other cousin of mine whom I couldn't court anyway.

A voice rang out from behind me. "Dost thou really need thy sword?"

I looked up suddenly to face my uncle, who was done up proudly but had no weapon himself.  
I stood up straight and patted the hilt. "'Tis the fashion, uncle. See, Petruchio wears one." Petruchio, hearing his name, looking up suddenly but then went back to his flirting.

"Perhaps 'twould be more fitting to between the fashion of wearing no sword at all," he said edgily, "for safety."

I frowned, pretending to not catch his meaning.

Lord Capulet sighed. "Thou canst resist the temptation to fight if thou hast a weapon on thy person. Thou shouldst not need it tonight. 'Tis a festival."  
I frowned perversely. "Thou seems awfully worried of the Prince's law. Dost thou not trust me?"

"No," he said shortly, looking me in the eye, appalled that I had the daring to challenge his opinion of me. If we were equals, it could be grounds for a duel. I knew it well, and yet I stood it out. "I do not. Look here; put thy sword away."

I stiffened. "'Twould ruin the night an a Montague enter," I argued firmly. "'Twould bring disrepute on the entire house."

"No," insisted my uncle, still touchy with his voice, hinting that I ought to back down for my own good.

"'Twould show the Prince and our enemies that we are above such fighting. Put thy sword away." His lips were in a thin line and his eyes were hard and cold. He was commanding me; I had to obey the lord of the house.

Though thoroughly furious with my uncle, I obeyed, slipping off my sword like a soldier being disrobed. I kept my eyes on him as I handed the weapon to my page. Petruchio had bothered to look up and watch, the time I would have preferred he didn't. To add insult to injury, he both retained his sword and patted it proudly.

"Shall we enter withal?" he asked.

I nodded forcibly and we went in. Soon we were surrounded by the usual crowd, all of whom had swords. I felt deprived and different without mine and the indignity was obvious. Why did not the great fencer and leader carry a sword when all of his companions did?

I could not avoid socializing with guests, however. Paris came to me and asked if I knew where Juliet was. "Thither," I pointed. "As she's been all e'en." Paris seemed remarkably nervous for a courter nearly twice Juliet's age.

"Thanks, good Capulet," Paris patted me absent-mindedly on the shoulder. Capulet. He was either really stupid or really apt to flatter.

The night wore on and I grew more and more bored as everyone else grew hotter and drunker and more passionate. Petruchio had left me for the dancers ages ago and gradually all of my friends followed suite. I turned down a few bold, tipsy girls myself, preferring to observe the festivities rather than partake in them. To keep my mind occupied, I checked up on my friends every few minutes. I'd spot Petruchio-- there, with Rosaline, wasting his time (why does she dance if she looks not for men?); Livia had found another one of my comrades; Mercutio, not a friend but an acquaintance, was rather entertaining to watch, as he kept snatching women away from his stout, masked companion, often equipped himself with two ladies while the other boy had none. There were, I noticed, an awful lot of unfamiliar faces--though disguised by masks. I wondered if perhaps I would recognize them without their guise, but at this hour of night I was too tired to sort out who was who without a face to judge by. I hadn't seen my uncle in a while, and Juliet . . . ah, there by the wall, standing out a dance. She needed it; all of the young gentlemen, even Petruchio and particularly Paris, had taken a turn with her. Even now another anonymous masker was approaching her. I slipped quickly and discreetly along the wall to listen in on him, my curiosity piqued.

He did not speak to Juliet, but stood at a distance. After a moment, he turned and whispered to a servingman, who shrugged. The youth than tiptoed forward, keeping his distance as a wild cat stalks its prey. He leaned wistfully against a column and stared at my young cousin, who was still oblivious to him.

She stroked her long hair absentmindedly, twirling her curls about her fingers, watching the crowds sleepily.  
I snuck up to the column behind him and was finally able to hear him speak to himself, just as I had heard Juliet do so many times. I had been right; it gave away much.

"Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear! Beauty too rich for use, for earth to dear!"

He certainly spoke her fair. That much earned him my favor. Still, there was something I didn't like about him, something familiar . . . something in his voice. I kept watching.

"So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love 'til now? Forswear it, sight; For I ne'er saw true beauty 'til this night."

And then it hit me. I knew his voice. I knew his hair, his skin. I would recognize his face if the mask were off. The mournful voice, the listless walk . . .

Romeo Montague was in our house.


	5. Act I, Scene V: The Disgrace

Act I, Scene 5: The Disgrace

(I am not Shakespeare. Does this surprise you?)

I whirled around. My page was behind me, gazing up with expectant eyes. "This," I pointed, "by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy." He scampered out to retrieve it. Surely even my uncle could not bear a Montague in our house, attempting to corrupt his own daughter! A Montague boy wanted nothing honorable from a Capulet girl. I could just hear what he would say to his crude friends if he won her heart . . .

I whispered scathingly to no one in particular, my eyes boring deep into the oblivious Montague's back. "What, dares the slave come hither, covered with an antic face, to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?" He was here to crash our party; I was sure of it.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder and jumped. When I turned around, there was my page with my sword. I took it and grinned, feeling the fighting blood within me begin to swell. I turned back to discover that the Montague boy had-- along with unwitting Juliet-- slipped into the crowd. I followed sneakily, like a cat, my rapier held in my left hand so I could quickly unsheath it with my right as I leapt upon him.

Focused on the couple, I dodged around the column behind which the boy had so lately stood, and plunged headlong into a thick body. I looked up into the startled face of my uncle, the Lord Capulet.

"Why, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so?" his shocked expression changed to suspicion as he saw the sword in my hand.

"Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe," I explained, drawing myself up and pointing to Romeo accusingly with the air of a telltale. "A villain, that has hither come in spite, to scorn at our solemnity this night."

Lord Capulet squinted. "Young Romeo, is it?"

"'Tis he, that villain Romeo," I pressed dutifully, using the dirty word once again, testing my limits.

My uncle sighed and smiled rather patronizingly. He clapped his hand on my shoulder and said calmly, "Content thee, gentle cos; let him alone. He bears him like a portly gentleman, and, to say truth, Verona brags of him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth."

I spluttered. I stared up at his unmoved face and started feeling sick to my stomach. He was complimenting the Montague boy? Disgusting!

He didn't stop there, either. "I would not for the wealth of all this town here in my house do him disparagement. Therefore, be patient; take no note of him." He glared down into my still-defiant eyes and tightened his grip on my shoulder. "It is my will, the which if thou respect, show a fair presence and put off these frowns; an ill-beseeming semblance for a feast." His tactics had changed from reason to raw obedience; to try him would be to try not only the Prince's law by my uncle's authority-- and going there had always been disastrous. As my uncle, he could make me obey him by simple demand. It was maddening.

Still, I could not believe he was letting this slip! Had he not seen Romeo with Juliet? Did he not care what could be done to her? I was not so weak as to allow a common law-- or even my uncle's authority-- prevent me from preserving the sacred honor and sanctity of the House of Capulet. If the patriarch didn't, and then I didn't, who else would? Surely the entire family's honor was greater than the simple boundaries between master and ward.

I stood up to him resolutely and said firmly. "It fits, when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him."  
I had focused my eyes firmly up into his, trying to burn him down with my steadfast gaze, but suddenly I found myself longing to tear my gaze away. His eyes had seemed to catch flame and his face was changing to a raging purple volcano at amazing speed. "He shall be endured!" he thundered. I held my gaze, blinking calmly, angering him. He pushed me sharply so that my scabbard knocked against my knee painfully. "What, goodman boy? I say he shall! Go to!" He began backing me towards the wall, his voice growing in volume. I was afraid he was going to strike me. "Am I the master here, or you? Go to!"

We had reached the wall, and my uncle was now mocking me, rather loudly, humiliating me to get me to back down.

"You'll not endure him!" he said in a high, petulant voice. Then he growled, "God shall mend my soul-- you'll make mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop; you'll be the man!"

I could feel the blood rising heavily in my cheeks. He was embarrassing me, and loudly, in front of guests. I knew I had to keep silent; he was slightly drunk and very irritated, but temper took over and I retorted before I could stop myself. "Why, Uncle, 'tis a shame!"

"Go to, go to!" My uncle's eyes flashed and he lashed out at me, striking me sharply across the face. I staggered, clutching my burning face with my sword free arm. I gasped but was unable to speak.

Lord Capulet raged above me still, chastising me with the most vituperative language he could think of. "You are a saucy boy, is't so indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what; you must contrary me! Marry 'tis time . . . " My blood boiled as he insulted my temper, my insolence, but I had to hold it down lest I prove his words true. I felt both deeply offended and frightened-- he was lord of the house, I was supposed to obey him, but did I have to stand as he scolded me like a child in front of all the guests?

Suddenly, his voice became soft and he turned away. "Well said, my hearts!"

I looked up and realized that my worst suspicions were true: the entire room seemed to be watching me. A group of women were craning their necks to look at me over Lord Capulet's arm, and he was addressing them, rather red in the face. A few of them tittered, but they turned away. One of them had probably said something terribly witty about me. I hated women.

My uncle was not finished with me. As if only angered more that I brought such ignomonious attention to the both of us, he looked me up and down furiously, then seized my sword away from my sweating hands.

"You are a princox, go!" He pointed to the door. I was being sent away from the party, once again like an unruly child.

I opened my mouth in shock and protest. He seized my collar and forced his eyes into mine. I shut my mouth and felt my insides tighten. I wished my choler did not fluxuate so with my fear. I was nearly lifted from the ground and I was practically strangled. I could see nothing but his face, not even everyone watching. He gritted his teeth and hissed incontrovertibly, "Be quiet, or--"

He jerked his head back suddenly. In the moment he was turned, I saw that one of the lamps had gone out, darkening one corner of the room. "More light! More light! For shame!" he shouted to the servants.

His grip renewed on my shirt and I closed my eyes, blocking out the authoritative stare that made me want to lash out at him and crumple at the same time. I knew even more people were watching, due to his outburst.

"For shame . . . I'll MAKE you quiet," he hissed. He shook me forcefully by the front of my shirt one last time and then flung me backwards, where I could do no more than cling to the wall, my face burning, my entire body off center.

Lord Capulet stormed away, but he soon greeted his guests benevolently. "What, cheerly, my hearts?" It infuriated me.

He had dressed me down, confiscated my sword, and humilated me in front of the entire high society of Verona-- including, worst of all, Romeo Montague. I looked for the boy-- he had slunk off somewhere with my unwitting cousin. He was going to corrupt her, deceive her, play her false or torment her in some way, and her father had not even cared. I, her cousin, was unable to aid her. I had a half a mind to dash out on the floor and slay him on the spot.

If I had a sword.

It was thoroughly undignifying, having been stripped of my weapon. First to have it banned, then to have it physically taken. I had never heard of anything more humiliating, especially for me. The most renowned fencer in Verona, denied his greatest asset.

My face stung from the slap, and my dignity from his words. He had praised Romeo in the same sentence he had disparaged me, his own nephew.

As I saw red, staring at the floor as if ready to set fire to it, I heard someone clear their throat. I looked up to see Lord Capulet with his eyes on me once again. He jerked with his shoulder towards the door.

I felt the blood rush back up into my face again. He was serious about my banishment. I was sent out; I was expected to obey. I did not want to risk any further scenes-- if I tested him much further I might find myself being swatted over his knee like a six-year-old.

As he turned away, I glared at the back of his head. "Patience perforce with willfull choler meeting make my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall," I shot a look at Romeo-- who was still with Juliet-- "now seeming sweet, convert to bitterest gall!"

I made my vow and stormed out. Romeo had not seen the last of me.

Even in the corridor and stairway up to my room, my temper was cooling . . . congealing from molten fire to noxious black spite. Vengeful ideas flowed through my brain.

I would teach that Romeo a lesson he would never forget. He would learn not to cross the Capulets, and never, ever Tybalt. I would show my uncle that I was a man and could take care of my own affairs. The Prince could do nothing to stop me. I was going to do what any honorable man did when he was humiliated.

I would challenge Romeo Montague to a duel.


	6. Act II, Scene III: The Revelation

Act II, Scene 3

(Hi, I'm Shakespeare. Pleased to meet you. Or how about no?)

I scarcely slept that night. The noises from downstairs could be heard in my tiny chamber of a room, and my bed felt hot and uncomfortable. Every ring of laughter from the revelers brought a fresh flush of fury and embarrassment to my hot face as I thought of how they had laughed as I was upbraided. My uncle's laugh carried most, and it made me squirm. Worse than the indignity of punishment was the fact that the simple recollection of these things made me uncomfortable with shame. I was meant to have no shame; I had no fault. I was defending the Capulet family honor.

I stayed awake until the party was over, hot with temper. I wrote out my challenge to Romeo in candlelight, taking care not to smear the words in my haste. My language was as I had been taught; Romeo Montague would see that Tybalt was a master of his art, in all realms.

He would really see it when I ran him through.

It made me laugh, cold and mirthlessly, overtaking the gay laughter of the party, when I envisioned his face as he realized his doom. Romeo seemed not to have noticed me; it would come as such a shock. Perhaps, as Romeo would be apt to sleep late after the party, his father would get the message first, and scold him for consorting with the Capulets. Romeo, bewildered, would come looking for me, and I would give him short answers, and be done with him.

Lord Capulet would be pleased that I had avenged my honor.

The next morning, I crept out early to the garden, where I bid my page take the letter.

"To the Montagues, sirrah," I commanded. "The name be on the letter; they shall know within."

I watched him, satisfied, as he went through the garden gate. I backed up- right into Juliet.

She reacted much worse than usual; she gave a shriek and her eyes grew wide at the sight of me.

I furrowed my eyebrows. "How now?"

She pursed her lips and clenched her fists. I saw her nurse, who had been standing with her, look from her to me with a frightened countenance, and leave after my page.

Juliet brightened for a moment and called after her. "Hence! Away, nurse! Hasten back!"

I raised my eyebrows at her. She blinked calmly back at me. "I hath sent her with a message."

"What message?"

Her face grew stormy. She was so much colder to me than usual. I wondered if perhaps the party had gone too late for her liking. "That be none of thy interest."

I could feel my lips curling into a knowing smile. "'Twas a man, was it not? Thou needst not be so secret."

She blinked back, her mouth coming open. "'Tis mine own interest and mine alone, Tybalt!"

"And thy father's," I teased- though the words felt bitter in my mouth. I resented Lord Capulet's authority at this moment, and almost wished it were not so. "Hath he spoke with the man?" I leered, "'Tis the County Paris, true?"

She turned her head away, playing perversely. It irritated me; I had always loved Juliet for her frank and open manner. This new coldness did not suit her. "I spoke with many men."

"Didst thou speak with a Montague?" I asked sharply, feeling the color rise in my face.

It rose in hers to match. She did not say anything, but watched my eyes, her pupils darting back and forth, searching to see what I knew.

"Thou didst, of course, realize there was a Montague in our house, didst thou not?" I pressed. Then I relaxed, trying to win back her warmth. "Perhaps thou didst not recognize him. I did."

She kept her face cold and expressionless for a few long moments, then turned away. "Perchance I did speak to one. Thou wouldst know. Thou was watching for me, was thou not? Watching for Montagues, itching to brawl. So choleric thou was sent out by my father."

I took in a sharp breath. She stung hard. "I wouldst not have a Montague come in thy house and adulter thee!" I cried.

She narrowed her eyes, the pinkness in her cheeks in two dark dots. "I have wit enough to tell for my own, Tybalt. I am nearly of age to be a bride. I wouldst thou wilt not watch me more."

"Thou wilt consort with Montagues! Thou needs protection," I glared at her.

She took a deep breath. "There was not reason to harm the Montague to which I spoke," she said slowly. "Such a man was well behaved and suited."

I gasped. She was defending Romeo, too! I could not take it. It was too bad my temper snapped on the frailer Juliet.

"It seems I am the only real Capulet in this house!" I shouted at her, watching her face tremble with my words. "I am the only one who holds the family honor and respects the ancient rivalry!"

Her eyes bored into mine, glowing. "The feud is old. 'Tis over." She was trembling slightly. "Also . . . " she stuck out her lower lip, "thou art not a Capulet. The real Capulets hath forgot the feud."

With that, she turned and walked stiffly back into the house.

My jaw dropped and I could barely move for astonishment. Juliet had offended me worse than any Montague had, ever, and even more than Lord Capulet.

"Thou art a traitor to thy family!" I shouted to her back.

I was seized with a furious thought:

The letter might have been to Romeo.

She was with him the most out of the previous night, and she defended him. She could not have a Montague as a suitor! Peaceful as Lord Capulet was to avoid the Prince's wrath, he would never allow such a marriage. The County was his top choice, of higher nobility than either the Capulets or the Montages, and an old man's pride could not bend a rivalry so far.

Romeo Montague had corrupted the House of Capulet. First, he had broken the ancient family honor. Worst, he had stolen the heiress from her rightful mind.


	7. Act II, Scene IV: The Conversation

Act II, Scene 4

(I am not Shakespeare, you see.

He died in the 17th Century.

If you think that I am.

You ought be in Bedlam,

For Shakespeare hath quite ceased to be.)

Only moments after Juliet stormed away, the servant Sampson came out and approached me.

"My master seeks you within," he said, rubbing his eyes. He must have stayed up particularly late.

I sighed and went inside. Sure enough, my uncle was waiting for me. I regarded him coldly. What more did he want from me?

He was calm, with bags under his eyes and a very sober expression. He, too, was recovering from the late night revelry. I was probably the only one in the house with the proper health- though the reason was not good.

"I hath reason to talk to thee about thy behavior last night," he said, rubbing his forehead but keeping his eyes sternly on me. "Thou thought my care of thee was harsh."

My mouth came open a little and I felt the familiar flush. He wanted to scold me again, after that scene last night? I clenched my fists, but Lord Capulet placed his hand heavily on my shoulders.

He looked hard into my eyes. "That was for thy protection, Tybalt," he said firmly. "I didst say I believed thee too choleric, and didst not trust thee with thy tool. 'Twas a good thing indeed I did. The days are hot, the revelries full of ale and passion. 'Twould be uneasy to 'scape a brawl, especially with thy spleen."

I kept my lips tight together, stemming more rising color.

"Thou knowest thou wilt be put to death for fighting," he continued. "Thou seemest to need check from another, for thou is unable to check thyself. Doth not the Prince's law have any weight on thee?" He shook my shoulders very slightly- not intending to, but succeeding in, reminding me of last night.

He sighed and let me go. "Thou art many years an orphan- thy good mother, bless her, died with thee in childbirth, six years later followed by thy father, God hath his soul. I hath taken thee in to my house, for my wife hath some fondness for thee. I believe thou remindst her of her elder brother, thy father, for thou art her favorite."

He went on to make me feel guilty and pitied. "I hath provided thee with house and daily meal, and childhood playmate through my daughter." I pursed my lips at that; every Capulet dined at his table. "Thy education came through thy father's will, but little else. I wonder if 'twould been best to kept you from learning the sword, for though thou hath learned the art of violence, thou hast not learned the honor of peace."

"Thou art as choleric as I," I blurted out. "Of the Prince's law alone are thou feared!"

His eyes widened and his expression stiffened at this, but he kept his head this time. "I hath treated thee as my own child. My own child I wouldst not have flouting the laws of this town, nor contradict me," he hissed. I stared at him; I couldn't see him scolding his sweet Juliet for anything. Then again, Juliet lacked the will to do anything against her father's wishes. Even now she had made the transition to anti-feud in the light of his recent demand for peace. I used to be jealous of her ability to obey and remain in better favor, but now I saw her only as a weak-willed, dull-witted creature with no proper thought of her own. If that was what was respected in women, I hated them even more.

"If thou findst my care of thee too overbearing," Capulet continued, eyebrows high, "thou knows the option. Tybalt, thou art of an age. Perhaps thou are ready to cease thy days as Capulet ward and begin thy own family? Thou hath a name and enough estate to go by."

I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. He was suggesting I leave! I had long known he planned to oust me at some point, as I couldn't very well stay under his care forever, but this came out as if he wanted to kick me out. We were sick of each other, I was too old, and if I wanted to be treated as an adult I would have to go out and make my own fortunes- outside the Capulet household.

I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to stop being a Capulet- and the only connection I had was the household in which I lived.

Lord Capulet sighed. "Think on't, Tybalt. Thou canst not stay as a child forever. Even Juliet, several years thy younger, is preparing for her duty in the adult world."

My uncle reached over and pulled out something from behind a crevasse in the wall. It was my sword. I felt myself suck in a long breath, but tried not to look too desperate to get it back.

"Thou desire back this?" he asked, presenting it with both hands.

I looked hesitantly at him. His voice suggested a catch. "Aye, sir," I said slowly.

"Art thou prepared to wield it properly? I shall no further intervene on thy behalf. Thou must as a man stay thy own consequences."

Could he not have taken that stance last night? I could have handled anything Romeo would have thrown at me.

"Aye, sir," was again all I answered.

He placed it in my hands. "Operate it nicely. The feud is done. Thou realize today might have been thy doomsday if thou hadst gone after the Montague boy?"

"I realize," I answered bitterly. I sighed one last time, "The feud be truly over?"

"Aye," he nodded solemnly.

"Art thou Montague's friend?"

He blinked, a bit taken aback. "I tolerate the man for sake of peace."

To avoid death, he meant. "Yet thou still hath reserve. Thou wouldst not, of course, allow thy daughter to marry a Montague?"

Lord Capulet's face twisted into utter amusement, as if the idea were preposterous. "My daughter's suitors are chosen by myself, and at present the County Paris is her most likely man."

"Aye, but ladies oft hath loved outside their father's wishes," I pointed out.

He laughed, with surprisingly good nature. "Thou insult Juliet with the idea!" he laughed. "She knowest her scope of suitors, and she stays. She is an obedient daughter."

Perhaps he was right; perhaps Juliet's letter was only to Paris, and feminine perverseness and desire for secrets kept her defensive of them around me. Perhaps she knew I'd tease.

Of course, once I killed Romeo, it wouldn't matter anyway.


	8. Act III, Scene I: The Fight

Heh, yeah . . . finally decided to finish this thing, seeing as how it's been almost a year . . . cough Yeah, sorry about that . . . I love you all for reading it anyway . . . Maybe we don't want Tybalt to die (pats him), but, well, that is his fate . . . and it can only be properly ended there . . .

(I've sat down and waited a year, and I'm still not Shakespeare. Therefore, don't assume I am or something odd. If you are Shakespeare, I'm impressed you're up and about and reading fanfiction . . . and please don't sue me . . . )

The day was oppressively hot again, so hot that I could feel my senses dulled by the very temperature. Yet I was a man of my word; in the square I planned to meet Romeo, in the heat of the day—and so I would.

Besides, I would miss this for nothing.

I had trouble persuading my friends to go out in this heat, however. "Can't we dine first?" Petruchio moaned, sweeping from his forehead the golden curls that were less-than-angelically dripping sweat. A few of the others nodded.

"Go on," I spat, irked, refusing to look at any of them. "Go on and choke and thy dinners. 'Tis my business. Miss it, then." No one made any move. I couldn't help but smile; I still had admires on one front.

"Wherefore now?" another asked after a moment. "Wherefore Romeo Montague?"

I did not want to speak of it, but my friends needed an explanation. For honor, they knew, duels were for—but for what type?

I took a deep breath and tried to explain. "Thou rememberest the party last e'en—"

At first Petruchio laughed, smiling in nostalgia. "As if I could forget! Thy cousin Juliet danced with me, and pointed me out to her nurse! 'Twas good, dost thou think?"

"I didst not see," I said coldly, glaring at him.

Petruchio's entire memory came back, and he grimaced. "Ahh . . . thou wast sent out. I recall."

I sighed, glancing around at all of the faces of my claque. "Everyone?"

Petruchio replied hesitantly for all of them as they nodded slowly in agreement. "Thy uncle's voice be loud . . . "

I clapped my hand to my forehead. "'Twas Romeo Montague, that villain. He came hither last e'en and I was rebuked for woulding him away. And," I glowered, making sure Petruchio in particular was listening, "the villain boy spoke with mine cousin Juliet and danced withal. She sent him a message this morning."

Petruchio's eyes widened. "She sees a Montague boy?"

I rolled my eyes. "Didst the letter come to thy house, then? She would see him, if she could, and my uncle does nothing to stop her. He does not know, and would not listen to me. But I shall ensure this is foiled."

"But what of the law?" another piped up.

Petruchio slammed a foot down on his. "This runs deeper than any law of the Prince's."

He smiled at me, and I allowed one back. I still had my followers, if not my family.

We reached the square. The afternoon air was thick with heat and humidity, casting an eerie mirage-like glow over the empty square. Most of the citizens were within their houses, napping or eating, out of the sun. I was thankful for that; it would make things much easier.

Naturally, I could see the entire square. There were two figures in the distance, silhouetted in the sun, their shadows vague.

Petruchio had better eyes. "'Tis only Mercutio and Romeo's cousin," he sighed.

"Aye, but they will know where he is. I recall they are close to him," I snapped, still edgy. I shifted my sword belt, which was growing irritatingly sweaty. "Follow me close, for I will speak to them."

Mercutio and Benvolio, like two deer, had perked up to watch our small procession approach them. Mercutio's eyebrows furrowed.

I smiled and nodded my head politely, always the gentleman. I was, after all, raised a Capulet—even if not one by blood. "Good e'en gentlemen. A word with one of you?"

Mercutio sniffed, looking me up and down. "And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something. Make it a word and a blow." He nodded to my sword.

I stiffened my gaze, letting him know quite clearly that I was not in the mood to be teased. "You shall find me apt enough to that, an you will give me occasion."

"Could you not take some occasion without giving?" Mercutio smirked, raising his eyebrows in that irritating playful way he was so fond of. He knew I was easily provoked, particularly (and ironically) when teased about my very quickness to start fights. His jesting nature made Romeo laugh. It made me want to spit.

I tried to press my business. "Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo—"

"Consort?" Mercutio raised his eyebrows even further, cutting me off with an insolent smile of mock stupidity. "What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords!" He seized his sword abruptly from his scabbard. "Here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance! Zounds, consort!" He whipped the sword right between my eyes. I reacted in cross-eyed shock for a moment, but quickly recovered, staring down the sword with pursed lips and cold eyes. The fire inside me did not light; I suppressed it into cool, molten, solid anger, made aged with the waiting spite. I did not want Mercutio.

Yet Benvolio could sense even this covert animosity. He reached out a hand to stop Mercutio. "We talk here in the public haunt of men," he whispered, his dark eyes darting about the square. "Either withdraw into some private place, or reason coldly of your grievances, or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us."

I sniffed at his pacifism. Yet, over his shoulder, as if a prayer answered by God, I could see Romeo entering the square at a lively pace. I could not suppress the slow, malicious grin that spread across my face. "Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man," I said silkily to Mercutio. I dropped him like a cat with a beaten mouse and dove for my true prey.

Mercutio put up his sword but kept out his wit. "But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery!" he shouted after me, still pretending to misunderstand me. Such silly puns. "Marry, go before to field; he'll be your follower. Your worship in that sense may call him 'man.'"

I curled my lip, hoping Romeo at least at the sense to accept my duel like an honorable man. He would have received my letter by now, certainly. He knew what was afoot. Yet perhaps, as a Montague, his manners would be less than perfect.

As for his fighting ability—well, I expected to be home clean for supper in less than an hour.

Romeo looked up, a giddy, stupid grin across his face, finally noticing me. I looked him straight in the eye as he came to his friends.

"Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this," I spat at his feet, laying down the gauntlet. "Thou art a villain."

Romeo blinked, utterly bewildered. He must not have gotten the letter. Foolish boy. Did he not return home to sleep? It would only make things too easy.

"Tybalt, the reason I have to love thee dost much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none." His soft brown eyes, more like a lamb's than a man's, met mine, and then, in the lowest of insults, dropped them and bowed.

He mocked me!

Everyone was silent for a very long moment. Romeo had excused himself from a duel. I knew what was running in everyone's minds was the same as what was running through mine: Was he serious? Did he honestly expect to walk away in peace?

"Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me!" I spluttered, face burning. Was I to simply let go of everything— my dishonor, Juliet's corruption, the stain on the Capulet name— because he was a coward? "Therefore turn and draw!"

Romeo remained calm, a dreamy, giddy smile cast upon his face as if nothing could disturb him, not even death. "I do protest I never injured thee, but love thee more than thou canst devise, 'til thou shalt know the meaning of my love. And so, good Capulet, which name I tender as dearly as mine own, be satisfied." He nodded.

I gasped, feeling my breath running short. His love of the Capulet name? He mocked! He slandered! How dare he!

I was not the only one astonished. Mercutio's mouth fell slackly open. He stared in disbelief at his best friend for a moment, and then stammered out, "Oh calm, dishonorable, vile submission!" he pointed me out to Romeo furiously. "Alla stoccata carries it away!"

Romeo's face remained as listless as ever. Mercutio reddened, and he whirled to face me. "Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?" He drew his sword again.

I was no Romeo. Yet Mercutio was not whom I wished to deal with. "What wouldst thou have with me?"

His wild eyes flashed. "Good king of cats, none but one of your nine lives, which I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight." He teased, drawing back on the childish cat reference in the most mature way. "Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? Make hest, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out!"

I would have none of this cowardly precedent. Blood pounded in my ears as he taunted me with his sword, his eyes—his very being. I drew. "I am for you!" Our swords flew to position.

At the clink of my sword from its scabbard, Romeo was thrown from his quiet mood. Still, he was not much above that previous dishonor. His face paled and he tried to plead with Mercutio like a woman—or Benvolio. "Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up," he affected a weak laugh, as if he wanted Mercutio to think he even doubted he would do it.

Mercutio's eyes did not even look to him. They remained on me, ready. "Come, sir, your passado."

We began, the crash of swords instantly bringing me into my element. I was filled with the aura of adrenaline and speed, thrusting in and out in perfect counter with his retaliation. He was, I admitted, a worthier match than Romeo or Benvolio had ever been. As the kinsman to a prince, he was well-trained.

Though I focused on the skillful sword and fiery eyes of Mercutio, I could hear and see Romeo circling around us, futilely trying to part us. "Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons!" he pleaded. His cousin did not move. "Tybalt! Mercutio! The Prince expressly hath forbid this bandying in Verona streets!"

Romeo, the law, both stupidities in my way. Nothing was decent anymore. I could fight and I was going to, as a man and a man with honor. Mercutio had insulted me, and he served in Romeo's place; both of us knew this. I would deal with him the honorable way, as I myself had not been entitled to.

Yet Romeo proved nearly as stubborn. "Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!" he pleaded to us, ducking in and out, fouling our moves. Finally, in the epitome of sacrificial moves, he dove straight between us, his body a shield, a wall, blocking both of us from each other.

I could not see Mercutio's face, but I heard him let out a noise of irritation. His sword arm dropped as he prepared to push his friend from the fray. Yet I had no patience for such wait. I jabbed blindly, just past Romeo's side, startling him. I pulled back, recoiling from my attack as a cat from a pounce.

My sword did not pull back easily.

I raised my eyes up. Romeo had stepped to the side in order to turn to me, wide-eyed and pale. I could now see Mercutio's face quite clearly, drawn into wide eyes and a shocked, open mouth. His eyes met mine, and I knew instantly what had happened.

He stumbled backwards, let his sword fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, and made a sick noise in his throat. He seized his middle with both hands, but I could see the stream of blood erupting from the wound, pouring over his hands like a scarlet river. Romeo turned and gasped. Benvolio dropped his sword.

Petruchio was suddenly at my side. "Away, Tybalt!" he shouted breathlessly, pale and shocked as everyone else. I felt the blood that had rushed from my body upon discovery of my successful thrust surge back into me.

I ran.


	9. Act III, Scene I: The End

I do want to thank you all for reading this. Thank you for being patient with me, and thank you a million times over if you commented! I love comments!

(Nope. Checks self all over. Still not Shakespeare.)

My friends pulled me along, all of them awestruck and panting. I tried to look back at the damage but they refused to let me see, pulling me back into an alley off of the square. We flung our backs against a wall, breathing heavily. No one spoke until I finally demanded. "'Twas mortal?"

Petruchio's ghostly face clashed with his red lips as he trembled, hesitating to tell me that which I already knew. "Aye," he whispered. We had seen enough fights to know by now.

I felt the little hope left in me drain away, collapsing against the wall, feeling as though I might be sick.

Petruchio licked his lips and said in a very choked voice, "But does not matter if he live or no . . . thou fought. Thou art dead."

"But Tybalt be not a Capulet!" someone pointed out quickly to my defense. I was too desperate for a reason to see the insult.

Yet even I knew there was no hope in it. "The Prince looked expressly at me as he issued that decree," I explained.

He tried again, his eyes wet, "But Mercutio be not Montague!"

"The Prince's kinsman!" Petruchio closed his eyes and slammed his fists backwards against the wall. "Of all men to kill! Tybalt! Tybalt, thou art doomed!"

I felt like I was going to melt. My entire lower regions had gone numb and I was now soaked with sweat. I was shaking like a madman. My uncle was right: This was my undoing. My uncle.

How could I face him? How could I face the entire family? Was I to flee home and expect them to hide me? Would they face the Prince in my defense? Would they challenge his law, challenge him?

No, not for Tybalt; not for one not even a Capulet. My uncle would hear my tale and I would be cast out on the street with no hope of my defense. I would be found within the hour by the Prince's men, brought to old Free-town, and executed by this time tomorrow—most likely in public disgrace. It would be ideal: Tybalt, infamous Tybalt, scapegoat of the notorious brawl, the epitome of the villain. First, I would be forced from the house of Capulet in disgrace—then, I would be executed to shame the entire Capulet line.

It was all Romeo Montague's fault. Because of his family, his entrance to the party, his wooing of Juliet, his scoff of my deul—I was going to die, and die as the lowest of the low.

Not if I could help it.

I swallowed hard and stormed out of the alley. Petruchio cried after me, "Stay! Where art thou going?"

"To slay the Montague!"

No one followed me.

I was a desperate man. What was there to gain? I could either kill Romeo or be killed by him. The other alternative was simply not an option.

The square was clear again. Romeo and Benvolio were crouched just as I had left them, Mercutio gone from their midst. I was glad he was gone; I needed no reminders to cause my distraction.

They heard me. Benvolio turned his tear-streaked face towards me and glowered, speaking to Romeo. "Here comes the furious Tybalt back again!"

Romeo peered my way with a similar countenance, though not as shamefully disgraced by tears. "Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain!" He drew his sword and faced me. "Away to heaven, respective lenity, and fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!" I reached him and he addressed me. "Now, Tybalt," he spat at my feet. I merely looked down mildly, too numb to even feel the rush of blood to my face, "take the 'villain' back again that late thou gavest me, for Mercutio's soul is but a little way above our heads, staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou, or I, or both must go with him!"

It was my thoughts exactly. I would die achieving my kill or die trying. There was no other way.

"Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, shalt with him hence," I drew my sword and let fly my final insult.

His eyes narrowed and bored into mine. "This shall determine that," he whispered. Then he sprung at me.

We flew into a duel, one wilder than any I had ever encountered before. Romeo was not skilled, not nearly so much as Mercutio or I, but his fire and fury compensated greatly. I was so used to being stopped after one round that I was unprepared for the weakness I felt having just fought another. It affected me greatly, and I felt my breath growing heavy in my chest, my sweat growing to a gluey paste all over my hot skin. My eyes glazed and I moved as if in a dream, the square still blurry with the afternoon sun. All that I could focus on were Romeo's eyes, dark brown, clear, and intense, flashed with the occasion glint of silver sword.

They were angry, those eyes. The Prince's accusing stare. My uncle's bulging eyes of his angry purple face. Juliet's glacial frown. Mercutio's wide-eyed horror and gasp at death.

The anger turned to triumph and shock. The eyebrows flew up, the mouth dropped open, and suddenly it all became clear to me, as clear as the pain that seared across my abdomen. I did not need to look down to know that it was all over.

The world swirled a little and I felt the ground rise up to meet me. I could hear the startled voices of shouting people worlds away. There was chaos, crying, running, but not for me.

Tybalt Niccolini—not a Capulet—had fallen at the hands of Romeo Montague.

FIN.


End file.
